


We Belong

by texadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1st person, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Molly isn't pleased, Molly's POV, Post The Last Vow, Sherlock returns from exile, Songfic, supermarket fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Did you miss me' has been broadcasting since the afternoon and Sherlock has one goal on his mind: to find Molly. When not at Barts, why not try the nearby Tesco?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Belong

**Author's Note:**

> This abomination of a fic is unbeta'd.

Somewhere in the middle of convincing myself that the brand name cereal was worth the extra pound, I saw the consulting detective and his dark head of curls, bounding down the aisle towards me. He slowed when he hit the cheap and sugary section —feet padding away against the scuffed up linoleum floor.

It’d been a long and arduous day. An early wake up time for the morning shift at Barts. A teenaged Jane Doe delivered right before 7:00 am —an accidental overdose found 48 hours later by an older sibling. Then there was the whole ‘Did you miss me’ announcement. Almost enough to give me a heart attack. But no, Mycroft managed that twenty minutes later when he showed up outside the locker room with four suited men in shades and a black sedan waiting out front.

He’d asked three hours later -enough questions for one day- where I’d like to be dropped off. I was hungry and needed more deodorant. Tesco. A small security detail would be following me around for the next week. I shouldn’t be alarmed, he’d informed me. I was to stay, still freaked out, regardless.

“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked, now standing on the other side of my trolley.

He chanced a glance at its contents —all guilty pleasure foods of different sorts. A twitch of his lips. Almost a smile, but not quite.

I dropped the the off-brand chocolate cheerios in my trolley and glared up at him.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

I pushed off from my standstill, holding back the urge to run him over. The nerve of him to ask where I've been, when all communication on his part, had ceased over five days ago. He made a wise decision and hopped away from my trolley, choosing to follow alongside.

“I called twice.”

I kept my eyes trained forward with tunnel vision set on the dairy wall.

“You weren’t at work.” He looked like a child lost in the park.

“Well why don’t you ask your brother where I was?”

He stopped mid stride and I gave in, coming to a halt myself a few paces further. I back tracked, dragging my sweets selection on wheels with me.

“Mycroft,” he stated with such disdain, I thought he’d spit to the side like a cowboy from an old western film. “What happened?”

I started walking again at a slow pace for him to catch up. “He was concerned. He had questions about my involvement with Moriarty.”

Sherlock cringed at this, looking away to hide his clear discomfort.

“I have a security detail following me now.” I looked around me and saw one of them with an empty basket looking through the yogurt section.

Sherlock followed my line of sight and nodded. “I figured.”

His focused return to me and my hands drumming nervously on the handle of the trolley. The corners of his eyes had drooped and he almost looked… concerned?

“But why didn’t you answer your mobile? I called once your shift was over.”

For the first time since work, I dug through my purse and the pockets of my coat, but came up short.

“Barts,” he stated.

No hint of a question, yet I nodded dumbly.

We seemed to be at an impasse, all a sudden. His question had an answer and I had a litre of milk for my cheerios. But as I headed for the frozen desserts section, there he was, fresh on my tail.

“Yes?” I asked him, in front of aisle seven.

“I -I don’t know.”

I screwed up my lip in such a way, I pictured it playing on my telly —the awkward mid-frame pause I manage to pull off whenever I need to use the loo.

“I was worried,” he continued. “The plane landed and John slapped me and I took a cab back to Baker St. Mycroft called me again while Mrs. Hudson made tea. And then she showed me the clip -the one broadcasted across England- and I just —all that came to mind was you, Molly Hooper. I needed to see you. I needed you to be all right.” Sherlock took a deep breath and looked down at his hand that had, at some point, drifted over top of mine.

I pulled away. “Wait! A plane. Why were you on a plane?”

All colour drained from his face. He almost blended in with the display of discounted toilet tissue. “Mycroft didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I stepped away from the trolley as his hands came up to steady my shoulders. “What’s going on?”

The past five days ran through my head, narrowing down any details on Sherlock that were off. The missed calls and absence at Barts. He wasn’t just being antisocial. Something had happened.

“What happened?” I asked, getting angrier.

I picked up a 9 pack of rolls and swatted him in the chest. It knocked him down, a fair distance away —just enough to dodge another swing from me. My momentum continued to carry the toilet tissue further though, till it left my hand and skidded to halt down the baking supplies aisle.

My chest hurt from the swinging and yelling, so I leaned over, resting my hands against my knees. From across the section, kneeling with his hands up, came the quietest reply from the man I’d ever heard.

“I shot him. I shot Magnussen.”   
“What?” Suddenly, I felt like sitting down as well. A shelf covered in memories of his failed drug test and recovery in the hospital had come barrelling down on me. And it was suffice to say, that I was in no condition to handle it.

He let me move on, trudging away with my food. I made it all the way to the freezer aisle, picked out my mint chocolate chip ice cream, and even started perusing the frozen pies, when that awful pull in my chest stopped me short.

My walk back to him felt less than inspiring with the front wheel on my trolley a tad wonky. He stood in the same spot, with his mobile yanked from his coat. I tried making one of those fake coughing sounds to get his attention, but he continued to look down at the phone, unwavering.

“Sherlock,” I finally spoke, nudging him with that front wheel when he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“What?” he replied. His layer of aloofness once again concealing any emotion.

I fought fire with violence and nudged him again, harder.

“Oye!” he yelled out, holding his leg to his chest and rubbing his shin where I’d banged into him.

“I want to know more,” I spoke.

“You could have just said that in the first place.”

I scoffed at his petulance. “What happened?"

That dark look of pain fell over him once again, as he made his way around the trolley.

“All that information on people. Their weaknesses and pressure points. It was all in his head.” He looked down, distress painted over the surface of his eyes. “He kept flicking John.” He grinded his teeth. I could hear it in the way he spoke. “There wasn’t another option.”

I hadn’t moved from beside him and he took that as a sign to continue.

“You know I wouldn’t kill a man. Not if I had more options. Applegate. His own mind palace. Filled with enough information to take down a country. And I made it go away. I had to,” he continued, beating himself up about it.

“Okay,” I said.

He looked up, puzzled. “Okay?” he drawled.

“Meaning I understand.” I hesitantly draped my arm around his torso, leading him into a hug.

He let me hold him —felt all of his weight against my shoulders.

“Was that why John slapped you?” I asked into his shoulder. “For shooting him.”  
He froze and I felt his weight shift. His face, previously buried in my hair, pulled back.

“What?” I asked with a hint of frustration laced into my voice.

We met face to face and he swallowed. “That was for the exile.” He ran a hand through his locks and pursed his lips tight. “Mycroft cut a deal. An MI6 mission in Eastern Europe.”

“You left,” I uttered, empty. My hands clung to the fabric of his coat, but my mind was elsewhere. I wanted to be anywhere else.

In my getaway, I abandoned my trolley and headed straight for the exit. A store employee passed me on the way out, asking if I needed anything, but I pushed by. As I walked briskly through the chips and biscuits, an announcement of the store’s closing in thirty minutes shut off and ‘We Belong’ began to play over the system.

I hurdled a closed off register as Pat Benatar broke into her chorus and I felt boundless. The supermarket doors, to my relief, were just a few feet ahead. I didn’t know whether it was the cold wind that blew by uninvitingly or the solid drum beats in unison with we belong together, that caused me to halt in front of the exit. The motion sensor doors slid open and closed, despite my indecision, so I stepped back and sat down on a bench inside.

He’d left. It was the years after the fall all over again. Except this time, I’d known. Whether he’d return was another thing altogether. But at least I’d had my goodbye.

Did I care though? Of course I did. But to the degree that my split second decision, to flee the Tesco and never see him again, had decided? Probably not.

I looked up, stood from the bench, and walked around the front entryway to see down the first few aisles. No Sherlock in sight. I was pretty sure there was no side door to the small Tesco by my flat, but wouldn’t bank any money on it.

I stupidly made my way back through the store, passing a cashier that had witnessed my great rope clearing leap, and found my trolley. No Sherlock in sight.

I had two things left on my list and preferred this trip not be a complete waste of time. I passed through the sweets and chocolate aisle, taking a handful of whatever spoke out to me, then headed for the toiletries for my deodorant. A wine display protruded or from the liquor section and I stopped for a moment, running my hand over the house red on display.

“The practical experience, huh?” a voice said from behind me.

I whipped around and caught him inches away with a hand holding onto the metal siding of the trolley. He noticed my attention to his hand and released his grip.

“Wouldn’t want you running off with the food again,” he joked rather halfheartedly.

My mouth hung open, a small sliver into a black void, where heated words were forming by the second.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a pause.

“Sorry for forgetting to tell me that I might not ever see you again?” I was bitter. But then again, he was an arse. “Well?”

He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry for being so afraid.”

“Afraid? Of Eastern Europe or facing me with the truth?” I leaned against the wine display: two stacked wooden crates with a cluster of fake grapes surrounding the discounted California wine.

He shifted as well, with both hands jammed into the pockets of his coat. “Afraid I wouldn’t be able to leave. If I told you, I would’ve stayed and faced trial and lost.” He seemed to shrink like a boy in a man’s coat.

“You would’ve stayed if you told me the truth about Magnussen and Eastern Europe?” I tapped against the crate, frustrated and confused.

“No,” he countered, dignified. “If you would’ve known the truth, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. If I saw you. If you would’ve seen me off with John and Mary…” He shook his head, stumbling around the words he was fighting so hard to leave his mouth. “If I told you that I cared.”

“About me?” I clarified.

“Well yes!” he bursted out, alerting a nearby shelf stocker.

“But I know that you care, Sherlock,” I said in a whisper. My hands fumbled around his coat, smoothing down the lapels, before landing on his chest.

“Cared enough to hold you? To look after you? To protect you and always be there?” His voice rose. “Cared enough to stay with you, be with you, marry you?”

“Well, no,” I muttered to his chest. I took a moment, before lifting my eyes from a loose button to his face. “I didn’t know that.”

“That’s why I was trying to find you,” he sighed.

“You were no longer afraid?” I asked, fingers crawling up his coat to his shoulders.

“I had nothing left to fear,” he breathed, lowering his mouth onto mine.

Despite us being otherwise preoccupied, my mind took this as a time to rattle off as many unanswered questions as it could come up with. How long had he cared for? When he said cares, did he mean love? Did he just moan? Did he want a relationship? I thought he was married to his work? Wait, did I just moan?

“Stop thinking,” he hissed, when we’d broke apart after a few open mouthed snogs.

He sunk into me, cupping my face, and pushed my lower back against the side of the trolley. It moved against the force, turning in a circle, while the wonky front wheel squeaked against the floor. The worry of an employee walking by was the farthest thing from my mind, but the announcement over the PA system, was not.

“Attention shoppers. Tesco will be closing in ten minutes. Please make your way to the cash or exit. This branch will reopen tomorrow morning at 6 am. Have a good night.”

“Um, I should uh, pay for this.” I stepped back far enough to point to my trolley full of groceries.

“You sure you have everything?”

I looked from his hopeful smile to my food and nodded. “Yup.”

The trolley pushed off again, back through the cereals and biscuits and sweets. Sherlock lingered by my side the whole way. He moved his hands from my shoulders to waist and back up again, before deciding neither one of us had the coordination to walk perfectly in sync.

“Let’s wait until we get back to my place, ‘kay?” I told him, glancing to my right.

It took a while for the insinuation to register for the detective. When it had, he tried leaning into my ear to whisper while we walked. There was a bit of stumbling. He gave up after two failed attempts and resigned to squeezing at my sides in the meantime.

“I thought we’d go back and talk,” I offered with a straight face, as we pulled up to the last cash register open.

I let the statement stew for a second, before shooting him a sly smile and unloading the trolley.

“Hi,” I greeted the girl behind the cash.

She flashed us a smile. “Find everything you needed?”

I hummed an appreciative yes. It was, quite possibly, the first time I’d ever answered that question in earnest.


End file.
